Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  “Oh, brother. Another man with too much penis pride.”

  I snort and pick up the pace.

  “Figures a jerk like him would be hung like a prize stallion,” I hear her mutter behind me.

  It might be her backhanded compliment or just the fact my feet hurt like a motherfucker, but I slow down enough so that she draws up next to me, then silently we continue on.

  Now what the hell do I say to Hayden? A change in plans, boss. Shit happens, boss. Fate fucked with us, boss. At least I discovered what Mendoza had shipped to Casa Bella.

  Uranium. Highly enriched uranium. The main ingredient for building a nuclear weapon.

  Stolen merchandise? Or a black-market steal?

  Chances are Mendoza’s either investing money in stockpiling illegal enriched uranium to resell to someone else or he’s building weapons. He has to be selling it. He doesn’t have the mental capacity or the temperament to keep such a project secret. I’ve been on this job for a few months yet mostly focusing my energy on Fahder while Mendoza’s been hosting parties and living in the spotlight. Those fundraisers—I doubt his guests realize what they’re financing. They likely think their money is being donated to a good cause like Aubrey’s housing. Though it’s quick money, it’s hardly enough to finance purchasing crates full of uranium. Did he use Papí’s money? Steal from his old man? Is he using these philanthropic causes to justify spending family money? There has to be a hidden money trail somewhere Papí has overlooked.

  I scowl. Not even on his best day would I have expected Mendoza to pull off something like this.

  Hayden is going to fucking flip.

  I might have experienced a career-low fuckup, but I’m not limping out of here without something important to share.

  “Are you Mexican or American?” Aubrey’s question interrupts my thoughts.

  “Both.” I’ll give her that much. I don’t bore her with how I got my green card years ago and how I’m a Scandinavian, Mexican, and American citizen.

  “Are you an army veteran? An ex-Marine?”

  “There’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.”

  “I knew it. No one maintains your kind of physique unless you’re military.”

  I turn and raise an eyebrow. “What kind of physique are we talking about?” Yeah, I like this turn in conversation, along with knowing she’s been checking out my body.

  She may be blushing. Hard to say with her cheeks flushed from overexertion.

  “So?” she says after a while.

  “So, what?” I reply, fully knowing what she’s asking me yet unwilling to clarify anything for her. After all, she could just be the smartest operative around. I learned long ago to never underestimate a woman. Especially a good-looking one, with eyes the color of the palest of emeralds and lips that would feel like heaven sliding over my cock. I haven’t been in her mouth yet. Damn it, I want inside.

  “Are you intentionally being an asshole or does it come natural to you?”

  I smile. “We can go our separate ways. Just say the word.”

  She opens then closes that pretty mouth of hers. Showing a bit of restraint. Smart woman.

  “Be prepared to,” I add as an afterthought. “If Mendoza’s men come barreling down the road, we’ll part.”

  “What if I feel safer staying with you?”

  “Too bad.”

  “Asshole.”

  I sigh. “Think, honey. They’ll have to split up in order to catch both of us.”

  “First, I am not your honey.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sweetheart?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay, baby.”

  She stiffens. Man, she’s easy to rile up. And I’ve got years of experience doing just that to people.

  “And don’t call me chavita, either.”

  “Fine with me, chava.”

  “Asshat.”

  “That the best you got, mamacita?”

  She kicks a stone. Yeah, no winning with me. Lesson learned, Aubrey.

  “You said ‘first’ . . . first, you’re not my honey. What’s second?” I prompt.

  She sighs. “It’s obvious Juan Carlos is after me.” Her head turns toward me. “But is it you they really should be after?”

  Bingo.

  “Why? Did you steal their drugs? Set up Little-Man to take the fall?” She winces at her word choice. Whoever had been searching for us on the other side of the driveway had a crash course in bad luck.

  It could have been me gunned down.

  It could have been her.

  It’s all her fault.

  “I think you owe me an explanation. I was nearly killed. I’m beat-up, sore, and frazzled. And I’m thirsty.”

  Thirsty. Fuck, a Corona or two sounds perfect about now. I’ll get a buzz on before getting my shit handed to me by Hayden. As far as water, it’s not like I packed for this hike back to Mexico City.

  “The less you know about me, the better,” I say gruffly, and pick up the pace. This time not waiting for her to catch up.

  “Ass-munch,” she curses behind me.

  Better keep her at arm’s length. Better keep us moving. And better keep her angry, because angry is so much more predictable than afraid.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Aubrey

  Diego hitches us a ride in the back of a pickup truck. Well, I’m in the back, he’s up front in the passenger’s seat. I’d been given a choice: sit on his lap or ride with the chickens.

  I chose the chickens.

  You might think I got the short end of the straw. Wrong.

  Through the open window of the cab, I pick up bits and pieces of their conversation. And from what I can piece together, it doesn’t involve me.

  To my delight, it seems to be about the truck driver. And . . . him.

  “I have a larger sweater . . . cold?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Pink is a nice color.” My eyebrows rise. I’m not sure but I believe the driver just commented about Diego being “big like a bull.” Because he follows this by adding, “How do you say it in English? You’ve got big guns?”

  I swear to God, even the chickens are smiling. I resist the urge to giggle. And the urge to holler into the cab, “Ask him about his biggest gun.” Yeah, Diego can parade his penis pride all the way to Mexico City.

  I roll my eyes at Diego’s response, also in English. “One hundred push-ups a day. Like ’em?”

  Now it’s the truck driver’s turn to giggle.

  Oh. My. God. The devil’s flexing his biceps.

  Show off.

  Flirt.

  “She can’t resist grabbing a feel. Dug her fingers right in and ripped my sweatshirt.”

  I roll my eyes. Half the morning was spent with me imagining ripping that sweatshirt off of him, then rewrapping it around his neck and strangling the infuriating man. God, he has a knack for pissing me off. Me, who’s built a reputation on being coolheaded and rational.

  The driver invites us to his home.

  I hold my breath. No. Please. The only home I need right now is my apartment.

  “Compadre, I appreciate the offer. But that woman back there is possessive.” He lowers his voice as if I can’t still hear him. “Jealous. Demanding, too. Don’t give her cause to do something drastic like mess with your chickens.”

  Abruptly, I’m airborne.

  Chickens squawk.

  Diego curses.

  And the truck driver is out of his truck and running in my direction like an angry rooster’s chasing him.

  “Get out.”

  I throw my hands in the air. “I’m not going to hurt your bleeding chickens.”

  “Bleeding my chickens. Out. Shoo. Shoo.”

  Oh no. He didn’t just shoo me away, did he? I clamber out of the truck. Diego comes to stand beside me, offering me the protection of his presence. Except he’s scowling and shaking his head at me.

  I glare at him, hoping he’ll read the accusation in my eyes. This. Is. Your. Fault. Was it too much t
o ask him to simply keep flirting with the man? Whatever floats your boat, right? Except now our boat is quickly sinking. The mere thought of resuming our walk exhausts me. “How about I ride up front and he takes the chickens?”

  The man eye-fucks Diego one last time, considering my proposal. I’m just about to breathe a sigh of relief when a damn chicken squawks. How I’d like to wring his long neck right after I’m through with Diego’s.

  “Thanks, my friend. We appreciate the lift.” Diego turns to me, and in a less flirtatious, less sickeningly sweet voice, says, “Let’s go.”

  I hang back yet keep up the pace as the daylight’s rays compete with the clouds rolling in. It’s going to rain, the moisture growing heavy in the air. And the only one of us prepared for getting wet is the man with the perfect ass flexing within his shorts as he keeps a steady stride ahead of me.

  Barefoot. Shirtless. Hot as hell and sporting swimwear. What the hell? Did he take a dip? And, more important, what did he steal? What is the real reason why Juan Carlos wants me dead? I’ve no doubt whatever it is, the man ahead of me is in the thick of it.

  I drag my gaze away from his flexing buttocks and onto the man-pack slung low across his waistline. The black case looks oddly out of place on him. Not that my cover-up or the flip-flops are any better. What is stored inside it? Coke? Heroine? Pills?

  You would think after serving his country, Diego would have a deeper respect for law. That he’d have a stronger sense of morals than your average American.

  Still, he might be an asshole with the body of the devil incarnate, but he didn’t abandon me on that mountaintop. Despite his grumbling and cursing, and his threatening to do so.

  He’s stuck with me.

  And I’m stuck with him—a possible drug dealer. Temporarily, anyway.

  I can’t get back to Mexico City fast enough.

  Raindrops begin to fall about a half mile outside city limits. Diego’s curses start to drop like lightning bolts about quarter of a mile away. I tuck my chin in and march in time with them, exhausted, frustrated, and so overwhelmed by everything that’s happened to do much more than push myself onward.

  “The time for tears is long gone.”

  I stop, midstep, and look up with a scowl. “It’s the rain hitting my face, asshat.”

  “Good. Can’t have you wuss out on me now. Stay put. I need to use the facilities.” He unhooks his sack, then carries it to the side of the road and gently places it on the ground before disappearing over the embankment flanking the roadway.

  “Some facilities,” I call, looking first toward where he disappeared then at his man-sack.

  Do I dare?

  Before I can weigh the pros and cons of my actions, I rush over to it, fall to my knees, unzip the zipper, and peer inside.

  My purple thong is the first thing I see. With my pointer finger, I push it aside. And gasp. He’s carrying not one but two guns. Ex-military . . . not so unusual, right? Though the fact doesn’t warm my heart. Balled-up pieces of black construction paper take up most of the space. Don’t marijuana growers black out windows with something similar?

  Then I notice the heavy oval-shaped rock. It’s the size of my hand, fingers included. Gray in color and smooth to the touch. It’s like an oversize pond rock, perfect for skimming across the water.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I jump and drop the rock back inside. A guilty flush creeps up into my cheeks. Busted, red-handed. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Snooping around, as usual. You failed my test, chavita.”

  “Test? You expected me to go through your bag?”

  He glares down at me from the top of the embankment as he ties the bathing suit waistband. His fingers rub against his lower abdomen as he works, drawing my attention like a honeybee to a sweet-pie convention. His raw sexuality makes me nervous.

  His big body straightens, his shoulders squaring off, his manner hinting at a subtle violence that has me scrambling to my feet.

  I back away slowly as he descends. “I said I was sorry. I didn’t steal anything. You can check.”

  “Who do you work for?” he says, casually, while readjusting the contents of his bag, zipping it, then scooping it up and refastening it securely around his waist.

  “My answer hasn’t changed from the last time you asked me this.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I’m presently unemployed.”

  The rain picks up. But it’s nothing like the intense, angry stare he pins me with.

  Like he doesn’t believe me.

  “Wanna know what happened to the last person who lied to me?”

  A threat? “Not particularly.”

  “I killed him. Snapped his neck with my bare hands.”

  I gasp and stumble backward.

  He stalks forward, fingers flexing. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he demands menacingly.

  Holy hell. How do I answer that? But I didn’t find heroin or coke or pills. No thick wad of money, either. The things narcotics detectives seize on busts. I’ve seen enough reruns of Cops to know.

  “I thought you stole drugs from Juan Carlos. I was searching your bag for evidence. You expect me to take you at face value after everything that’s happened? Seriously, what would you do if you were in my shoes?”

  I glance down at his feet. Wrong question to ask. Wouldn’t it be pretty damn pathetic having my neck viciously snapped by a man wearing daisy flip-flops? Damn it. Don’t underestimate him. Don’t underestimate your exhaustion and how it underplays the danger you’re in.

  This man is ten times more complicated than a simple, foulmouthed Romeo. Arrogant. Extremely clever. Powerful. Yet up until right now, I failed to pick up on the savage aura about him. It’s subtle, lying just below the surface.

  Menacing.

  I should have realized the first time we met, when I asked him if he were a boxer, that I’d instinctually honed in on more than just his muscular body.

  Too late.

  There’s no escaping him.

  “Who are you?” He grabs me by the arms and hauls me up against him.

  I blink. “I don’t understand your question.”

  He shakes me. “Who. Are. You?”

  Call it irrational, whatever, but I’m suddenly furious when I should be afraid. “I. Don’t. Understand. Why. You. Keep. Asking. Me. This.” I enunciate, mimicking his manner.

  His releases a hand only to put his fingers around my throat.

  Rain pours down on us. Yet it’s not enough to hide the flood of tears rolling down my cheeks. Now, I’m scared. Tired. Defeated and confused beyond belief.

  “Crying won’t help.”

  “Jerk,” I whisper. “Why’d you help me escape if you only intended to kill me? You’re going to snap my neck for taking a peek into your bag? You . . . goddamn . . . rock collector.”

  He looks stunned. Then he laughs. Laughs—It’s not even a chuckle but a full belly-induced vibration that rolls up through his chest and escapes through his madman’s lips. His hands drop away. And I step back out of reach, watching as the lunatic continues to laugh while shaking his head.

  I pivot on my heels and stalk away. My tears keep me company as I hurry along the roadway, needing to return to Mexico City as soon as possible. Needing to get far the hell away from him.

  He jogs up next to me. “I warned you to keep out of my shit.”

  I ignore him, and am rewarded with his long sigh. “I believe you, you hear me?”

  “I don’t care what you believe. You threatened me with bodily harm. I can’t trust you.”

  “Fine, but . . . I lied,” he murmurs. “The last man I killed wasn’t by choking him.”

  My foot catches on a stone and I stumble. His fingers wrap around my elbow to steady me. I jerk away. “You admit to killing people?”

  “You’re the one who said ex-military. A Marine.” He runs ahead of me, getting out in front of me and turning as he walks, so now we’re face-to-face. “I did
n’t hurt you.”

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I was wrong, okay. Dead wrong. But I had to know.” He looks past me, then says in an entirely different tone, one filled with warning, “We have company.”

  My pulse quickens as he motions for me to follow him to the side of the road.

  I hear the engine approach.

  Spy the quick upward lift of Diego’s lips before he runs back into the road.

  The vehicle stops and its doors open.

  Diego is already climbing aboard. “You gonna stand there?”

  All the tension leaves my body in one great whoosh.

  A bus.

  Thank you, blessed Mary.

  I dig out a few pesos from my purse, enough to cover our passage, and hand them to the bus driver.

  “Horrible day to be caught out in the rain, señorita.” I roughly translate the bus driver’s greeting.

  “Sí, correcto,” I respond as best I can then take a seat, up front and near the exit in case I need to get out fast. Far away from Diego, who had headed toward the back.

  To my surprise, he leaves me be. Guess we’re well past the point of being polite.

  At this early hour, it seems like every woman from Puerto Peñasco to Mexico City is riding this bus. It’s a wonder the front end isn’t six feet off the ground given the combined weight of the passengers clamoring around Diego, his female fans continuing to double with each stop.

  I grimace as I hear them teasing him about his torn sweatshirt and those damn flip-flops. Something that began as a funny, ridiculous source of humor now causing an unexpected sense of loss to rise up inside me. Alone. I’m all alone. Forgotten. A victim of his seductive ways.

  As the bus turns to pull into the bus station, it hits a pothole, sending me airborne and causing me to turn in my seat as I land. Causing me to gasp, as I spy the fast-moving devil in full Don Juan mode. He’s smiling at a pretty, dark-haired woman halfway on . . . his . . . leg . . .

  Ridiculous that I care. I’ve no rational reason to be pissed. I don’t like the man. I don’t trust him after the stunt he pulled back there. And even if he’s the next star of Magic Mike, that doesn’t overshadow the fact that he’s dangerous. To the eye as well as a girl’s well-being.